Bad at Being Me

A few months ago, I turned 25. Almost immediately, everyone over the age of 25 felt suddenly qualified to give me the exact same piece of advice that sounded like something they’d read on a tote bag once: your mid-twenties are for exploration. You know — for finding yourself. I was urgently instructed to try new things, as if I hadn’t been doing that for the 24 years of my life leading up to this day, and to take actions that would put me outside my comfort zone. The whole notion felt kind of unnecessary, but I obliged. I engaged in difficult career conversations with my manager; I cooked recipes that were from actual cookbooks and not the Tasty website that I normally relied on. Despite all this exploration, though, my main takeaway was something that I’d been somewhat aware of all along, as it continues to crop up time and time again in my everyday life: I am exceptionally bad at being a lesbian.

In my defense, being a “good” lesbian is easier than it looks. When I finally checked off the queer box, I was prepared for a world of endless, rainbow tinted opportunities that would allow me to embrace myself fully. The reality, though, looks a lot more like me drunkenly stumbling over to a guy right before the bar closes and asking what he’s up to next. Which is not, unfortunately, because I’m bisexual — it’s because I’ve had one too many Coronas and really want to hold someone’s hand. Someone. Anyone. I settle on a…